Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(2)
She was hopeless, stuck in the past, living in her imagination. Even as a child, she’d had more books than friends, especially after her mother died.
No. She wasn’t going to be that person anymore. She’d left her old life behind.
No more hiding in history to avoid the present. Being fired from her last position was a stain on her résumé—even though she’d recovered the artifacts that were stolen under her watch—but like a cat free-falling from a high-rise, she’d landed relatively unscathed. Yes, in order to get a job, she’d had to take the blow to her ego and accept a demotion to assistant curator. In Maine, she’d curated an entire small museum. But she was grateful to work in the field she loved again, and that she’d been forced to leave the painful family entanglements of her hometown. Being away from home gave her an exhilarating sense of freedom that compensated for her lower salary. It was a good thing her trust fund enabled her to do as she pleased.
Regardless of the drawbacks, Philadelphia was still her fresh start. Nothing was perfect.
Someone knocked on the door behind her. She set the knife down, crossed five feet of gray speckled linoleum, and opened the door for the department administrative assistant. April followed her back to the table. “Oh, the reproduction is lovely.”
“It is.” Louisa leaned back and studied the gleaming new weapon. “I hope it’s as effective in wowing visitors as it is beautiful.”
“Don’t underestimate the glitter effect. People are like fish. They’re drawn to shiny objects.” April cocked her head as she watched. “The new exhibit is going to be spectacular. Visitors are going to feel like they’re in the middle of an epic battle.”
“That’s the idea. Just give me one minute. I’ll be right with you.” Louisa repacked both boxes.
“Take your time.” Respecting Louisa’s concentration, her assistant waited, but the toe of her practical flat shoe tapped an incessant beat.
Satisfied the weapons were secure, Louisa placed the artifact on the shelf. Peeling off her gloves, she removed her glasses and slid them into the pocket of her suit jacket.
April got down to business. “Director Cusack wants to see you in his office.”
“What’s wrong?” Louisa turned toward her assistant.
At fifty-five, April was small and slim with bright red hair styled in a short, spiky cut that suited her energetic and quirky personality. She’d been with the museum for decades. April knew everyone and everything that went on inside its glass-and-brick exterior. Nothing slipped past her experienced scrutiny.
“I’m not sure what he wants.” April’s frown and narrowed eyes conveyed her displeasure. “But the police are with him.”
“The police?” As if being summoned to the director’s office wasn’t enough to stress her out. Louisa tucked the boxed reproduction under her arm and followed April to the hallway. The door locked automatically behind them.
“I suspect it’s about Riki.”
“I hope it isn’t bad news.”
Riki LaSanta, a second-year intern working with the Egyptian collection, had gone missing a few weeks before. The police had questioned the staff when the girl first disappeared, but with no evidence of foul play, the case hadn’t garnered much attention. Though she didn’t work directly with Riki and hadn’t known the young woman very long, every time Louisa saw one of the MISSING flyers posted around the museum and university, her chest ached. What could have happened to her?
“I don’t know, but the police look grim.” April’s eyes misted. “I was hoping Riki had just needed a break. I know her grades were shaky this semester.”
Louisa gave April’s forearm a supportive squeeze. “That’s what everyone is hoping. It’s a valid theory. Graduate school is tough. The pressure can get to anyone.”
They walked down the corridor in silence. Louisa’s heels tapped on the tile, echoing the staccato beats of her heart. At a junction in the hall, they stopped.
“Do you want me to take the reproduction up to the prop room?”
“Would you? That would be great.” Louisa handed her the box. “I already cataloged it. It goes along the far wall with the other props for the Celtic Warrior exhibit.”
“I’ll take care of it.” April lowered her voice. “Watch yourself in there. Cusack will be looking out for his own hide, not yours.”
“I will. Thanks.”
She and April parted ways in the center corridor. Louisa paused outside the director’s door to button her jacket. Composed, she walked into the outer office. The blonde receptionist talking on the phone waved her through. Two sharp-eyed men sat in the guest chairs that faced the director’s antique mahogany desk. Behind his desk, Dr. Hamish Cusack, director and chief curator, stood, prompting his guests to do the same.
“Dr. Hancock, come in.” Lured from a museum in northern England seven years before, Director Cusack’s accent was as impeccable and British as his manners. In a tailored charcoal suit that contrasted with his guests’ off-the-rack attire, he was tall and fit for his fifty years. Cusack gestured to the men one at a time. “These are Detectives Jackson and Ianelli.”
Detective Jackson was a wiry African American in his midfifties with a shaved head that reflected the overhead light like polished walnut. Ianelli was younger, perhaps forty, with dark hair and olive-toned skin that suggested Mediterranean ancestry. The buttons of his blue dress shirt strained against the bulge of his belly.